Bludgers And Blunders
by geoblock
Summary: Ginny Weasley feels like the only person who can truly see through Blaise Zabini's façade. She's tired of the hero worship, and, as a journalist, she's ready to dig up some dirt. Or, Seven meetings in public, and one in private.


_BLAISE ZABINI: WITCH WEEKLY'S MOST CHARMING SMILE WINNER_

_Witch Weekly is pleased to announce Blaise Zabini as the winner of the 2006 Most Charming Smile Award! _

_The young Beater won by a narrow margin, beating rival Cormac McLaggen by just under two hundred votes._

"_I'm absolutely chuffed." The young Beater told our reporters, "And if the Tornadoes' season keeps going as it has, I promise you'll be seeing a lot more of this smile."_

_Not all were pleased with the results, however. Ginny Weasley, reporter for the Quibbler, and one of Zabini's harshest critics, had this to say on that matter, "Maybe if you all spent less time looking at his smile, and more time looking at his blatantly obvious fouls in their last game against Puddlemere, you'll see the real reason behind their 'success' this season."_

It was sweltering in the conference room. The ample windows turned the room into a trap for the July sun, and the sheer number of sweaty bodies made it almost humid. Ginny was reminded of spring afternoons in Greenhouse number three, but the only thing occupying her time was counting the houseflies frying on the windowsills.

Naturally, Zabini and his two teammates took their damn time gracing the room with their presence—ten minutes had passed by when they took their seats on the makeshift stage, placing them above everyone else in the room. This let Zabini enjoy his favourite pastime—looking down on other people.

Ginny fetched her quill from behind her ear, testing the flow of the ink of the corner of the page. The piece of hair it had held back fell into her eyes, and she blew it away impatiently, casting a glance over the figures on stage.

While his two teammates were a little stiff in their chairs, Zabini was carefully posed in a position of relaxed arrogance.

There was a fumble of organisation, and one reporter was signalled to stand with the first question for the team. Predictably, he turned his attentions on Zabini, and with a dry cough,

"Remarkable playing today, Zabini, truly—"

Zabini's smile was camera-ready, he showed his incisors in their unnervingly white glory, "I do love it when you flatter me, Pemberly."

The stillness of the conference room broke with a twitter of laughter at the young man's expense. Ginny didn't join in; she was too unnerved by how Zabini's smile never met his eyes.

Pemberley continued, looking awestruck and abashed and a little pink-cheeked, "But what would you say contributed to your win today? The Tornadoes and the Harpies have been fairly even in the league so far—what gave you the edge?"

Zabini's smile shifted to a more thoughtful, modest look, lest he look too arrogant. Something about the way he slipped from one face to another set her teeth on edge, like she was watching a master puppeteer pulling strings from somewhere inside his head. It was as engineered as the press conference.

"I think, Pemberley, the determination and doggedness of my teammates gave us the lead today. The Harpies are, don't get me wrong, a…" he paused for effect, "passionate group of ladies," Ginny ground her jaw, "but fire and impulse only get you so far in the league. My teammates and I have trained hard to improve ourselves and our techniques, and I think today it really showed."

There was a pause, filled with the scratching of quills and the click and flash of cameras in the front row.

The media managers were scouting for the next question, and Ginny's hand shot up. Somewhere, Molly Weasley's voice told her to hold her tongue, but it was always too sharp to bite.

Zabini saw her stand, and she watched something flicker behind his eyes, for just a moment, before he dampened it. She wanted to pull it from him, see whatever uncouth and unpalatable thought he was having behind his media friendly façade.

Ginny didn't back down from his gaze, even as she felt the attention of the room swing towards her, the surprise as journalists scrambled to reorganise themselves as they caught smell of a potentially salacious headline.

Zabini was all contrast—his dead eyes against his polite smile, the light blue of his Quidditch robes against his skin, and his cutting words against his playful inflection.

"You sent three players off the field with serious injuries in twenty minutes of play. Is that technique, or intimidation?"

Ginny watched with some satisfaction as Zabini's brows shot up, before he managed to wrangle his expression into something more schooled,

"This is professional Quidditch, Weasley, not the children's league." Zabini drawled, "People get hurt."

There was another titter of laughter from the room, and Ginny could feel the tips of her ears flushing red—she just hoped she was far enough from the cameras, not wanting her embarrassment memorialized on the pages of _Quidditch Weekly._

It was the flare of anger in her chest that spoke for her, the words already snapping from her tongue before she'd had a moment to think them over. She'd never been good at this part.

"Not to that extent, if the _rules_ are followed."

The room was completely still now, as if even the Quick Quills could sense the tension, and had paused over parchment.

Zabini's voice was far cooler—and far more genuine—when he spoke, "Are you accusing my team of foul play, Weasley?"

Truth was, Ginny didn't trust Blaise Zabini.

His grin when he smashed his Beater's bat, and when he answered press question were one and the same—both gleefully predatory and well-practiced. She didn't like how scripted he sounded, as though he'd brainstormed the least offensive and most charismatic answers in any potential conversation. It felt like she was talking to a cardboard cut-out of a person, as though he was nothing more than his _Witch Weekly's_ 'Bachelor of the Month' photoshoot and his Daily Prophet interviews.

In her experience, people only presented such a convincing front when they had something truly awful to hide.

And some days, she felt like the only person who could see through it.

She fixed on her best impersonation of his poster boy smile, fitting as many of her teeth into it as possible,

"I don't know Zabini, am I?"

_HARPIES V TORNADOES: WEASLEY CALLS FOUL PLAY_

…

_The accusation didn't put a damper on the Tornadoes' win, however, as Zabini pointed out,_

"_If Weasley has a genuine concern with our playing, she's more than welcome to leave a formal complaint with the Quidditch Board. Otherwise, it's just controversy for the sake of it."_

…

_There must be some irony_, Ginny considered, _in holding_ _a charity auction at a place like this_.

The penthouse was more a work of art than architecture, with enough glass to make Ginny sympathise with goldfish. She wanted to fake a headache and go home, but she'd promised Hermione a few publicity shots—a promise she regretted.

She'd spent most of the evening on the edges of conversation, nodding and hiding her mouth behind her champagne glass. It was more a prop than anything else, as she'd been feeding its contents to various pot plants around the room when no one was looking.

It was uncomfortable and stiflingly polite, the posture of the room ramrod straight. Even though Ginny was familiar with most of the crowd, it seemed that stepping into their dress robes and the dimly lit room had brought a silent request for formality and 'properness.' The same three topics—the Ministry, charity and the weather—grew duller with each variation she heard, and she quietly wished something ridiculous would happen. Maybe for a curtain to catch fire, or someone to drunkenly fall onto the buffet table, just to break the monotony of the night.

At least Ginny's moping had purpose tonight, trying her best to stay as far from possible from the head of messy black hair across the room. Harry hadn't noticed yet, too caught up in the small talk—the Ministry, charity and the weather—that he'd accidentally become good at.

She may have been putting too much effort into Harry patrol, as her elbow knocked a solid mass, and she sloshed wine down her dress.

"Drunk already, Weasley?" the solid mass said.

She recognizes the voice. Ginny heard it often on the Wireless, and it usually prompted her to turn it off.

"Your very presence, Zabini, makes me wish I was."

She fumbled in her clutch for her wand, but spared a moment to shoot him a glare. He was dressed in his usual black get up, all the creases charmed out, making him a sharp silhouette in the dark room. If she were to look at him straight on, and he were wearing his infamous 'smile', he would be indistinguishable from his life-size cardboard cut-out. Ginny knew this, because she had to walk past the bloody thing every time she went into Quality Quidditch Supplies for broom polish.

"I'm surprised you're here, but I suppose you've got to cling onto your fading celebrity somehow."

She located her wand, performing the necessary cleaning spell on her person,

"Unlike you, my ego doesn't require constant media attention to survive." She said distractedly. She allowed herself a brief fantasy of going home, pouring a bubbly bath, and staying in it so long she'd develop gills.

"Which is a good thing, otherwise it'd be as shrivelled as your heart."

Ginny had another retort lined up—something about shrivelled parts of _his _anatomy—as it was a familiar dance between them. But they were interrupted by a photographer, elbowing his way through to them, with a determined look in his eye. Credit to him, a shot of the pair socializing voluntarily was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

"Alright for a picture?" It sounded like a question, but it's wasn't, because he'd already shifted his camera for the shot. Ginny didn't have much say in the matter, and Blaise pulled her close to his side, resting a hand presumptuously on her waist.

There was a blindingly bright flash, and it was a shock to Ginny's eyes, which had adjusted to the darkened room.

"Not here with Potter, then?" she heard the photographer say, and she felt herself pulling a face.

"I'm not here with Zabini either." She said, trying to blink her vision back.

"She asked me, but I said no." Zabini quipped, and Ginny's vision started to creep back in. But alas, after her few second stint with blindness, the first sight she was cursed with was Zabini's mocking grin, taking great amusement in his own joke. Ginny quickly decided there is no God.

"He said he'd prefer to go home and wank to his own reflection." she offered and Zabini, who was halfway through a long draught from his martini glass, choked.

But the back of Ginny's neck was tingling, and her ears pricked,

"—Sorry, scuse me, I just need to—"

It was the second voice Ginny recognized of the evening, and the only other male voice she had such a visceral reaction to. She turned, and saw Harry trying to squeeze through clusters of people, making a beeline for her.

"Fuck." She said quietly, and zipped away, leaving Zabini choking on his drink and the photographer looking on in complete confusion.

Ginny managed to hide behind a pot plant she'd watered earlier with champagne, and she could just catch Zabini and Harry over the hum of conversation.

"Hey—was Ginny just here?"

"Yes, Potter, she was."

A pause.

"Well, did you see where she went?"

"The bathroom, I believe."

There was a longer pause.

"If you see her, could you tell her I'm looking for her? I need to have a chat with her."

"Potter," Zabini, if Ginny wasn't mistaken, sounded a little snottier than usual, "take a hint."

The longest silence yet.

"Uh, well—"

The photographer piped up, "Alright for a picture?"

_MUGGLEBORN RECORD RECOVERY CHARITY EVENT_

…

_Former flames Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley were both in attendance as well, but stayed at a reasonable distance from one another for most of the night._

"_Things are still uncomfortable between them," one source shared, "they're just trying to work on a friendship for now, but whether that's possible is yet to be seen."_

_Hermione Weasley-Granger headed the event, but when she was asked about the pair, she had this to say, "Unless you've got a question about Muggleborn Record Recovery, I don't want to bloody hear it."_

Ginny took her lunch break half an hour early, dipping out of the Prophet offices with the agility and secrecy of someone with six brothers and a mother with the hearing of a bat.

She'd spent most of the week working on her new submission for her Saturday morning piece—a lengthy exposé detailing the salary differences between the top ranked players in the Quidditch league. It seemed marketability, popularity, and pure-bloodedness were the key markers of a highly paid player—not their statistics or skill. Not very surprising, if you were a cynic like Ginny, but she'd painstakingly combed through mountains of dull paperwork to state her case.

Barnaby Cuddon, the prick, had taken ten minutes to read it before appearing at her office door with his mouth twisted up like he'd sucked a lemon.

"I think we could give the reader's a break from your… controversial pieces. It could polarize readers, and we wouldn't want that, would we?"

If Ginny said the words 'journalistic integrity' in her workplace, her co-workers would probably think she was talking about a new cocktail bar on Diagon Alley.

"You don't think our readers wouldn't appreciate a thought-provoking piece on the prejudice in Quidditch?"

Ginny despised his rhetorical questions, and how he rocked on his heels when she even slightly disagreed with him. She could tell he wasn't comfortable with confrontation, but instead of avoiding it, he just expected the other person to acquiesce.

"I think a piece of the current Quidditch league rankings would be thought-provoking enough, don't you think?"

He had hovered at the doorframe of her office, like he was afraid to enter but was determined to stand his ground. The office was small enough that she could've neatly struck him with a Bat Bogey Hex, but her rent didn't pay itself.

"Alright."

She'd spent an hour and half staring at blank parchment before scrawling a word,

_Lunch?_

She was on her way to Hermione's office now, ducking through the busyness of the Ministry. The Law Enforcement offices were dangerous territory, but she dipped briskly past the Auror offices, heading for the Law Offices with speed.

The Ministry always felt off for Ginny. Probably because her most prominent memories of the place were caked in blood and the crackle of ferocious magic. Watching the motion of people, and the polite hum of chatter and whizzing of memos felt like the calm before a storm—like a crack were about to sound in the air, or a scream, and figures in black cloaks would descend upon them all, wands aloft.

Sometimes Ginny felt as though she was waiting for something terrible to happen, like all this safety and boringness was drawing to an end that she couldn't see, like chaos was hibernating under it all. She swore some days she could feel the hum of it, like if she pressed a palm to the ground, she'd feel something rumbling there, waiting.

Would it be so bad, a break in the humdrum? Nothing like a war—she never wanted to live through that again. But just _something_, anything, to get her blood racing and adrenaline spiked. Quidditch had been the closest thing she'd had, fighting for the Quaffle, tumbling with your opponents fifty feet above the ground, but that earth was salted. And it was hard to find a place in London for recreational flying, without any Muggles, and enough space to go fast. She ought to visit home, see her mother and father, and take advantage of the open space—away from prying eyes and nosy bystanders.

Hermione's office door was closed, in a meeting with a client most likely. Ginny _was_ early. She leaned back against the doorframe, wondering if eavesdropping was possible. Knowing Hermione, the door was likely impenetrable with a number of spells Ginny could only guess at, so she settled for picking at her cuticles.

At least until she heard a door opening, and caught the tail end of a sentence, from somewhere around the corner, and she paused to listen,

"… if it got out, it would ruin the season. I doubt I need to emphasize, but you must keep this quiet."

"Naturally, I take my client confidentiality very seriously, Mr Zabini."

Ginny's curiosity immediately perked. She hadn't recognized his voice at first, as it wasn't the one she was accustomed to. His typical haughty tones, brimming with arrogance had been replaced with something more blunt and hard-edged, unconcerned with how it sounded on the Wireless.

"I don't need the reputation of my team and I coming under question, public scrutiny is the last thing we need right now. If this were to become public knowledge—" he hissed.

"I assure you, Mr Zabini, I will make it my absolutely priority to keep this contained."

"Good." That was more familiar, back to polished and cleanly pronounced, "I will see you next week, Mr Waterford."

"Of course, Mr Zabini. See you then."

Just before Ginny's mind could start ticking, it was her luck that Zabini rounded the corner she'd been eavesdropping at.

She knew he'd seen her, as he paused a little in his step, his back to her, his shoulders almost imperceptibly tightening. Ginny nearly said something—and it would've been cutting and witty, probably—but she knew she'd overheard something she wasn't supposed to, and it wouldn't be advantageous to let _him_ know that.

It was only a millisecond, and then he was off once more, robes whipping around his ankles.

_PROMISCIOUS POTTER_

…

_Is Harry Potter no longer the most eligible bachelor in Wizarding Britain?_

_It seems Potter has moved past the heartbreak of his former flame, Ginny Weasley, in favour of Pansy Parkinson, Slytherin heiress and entrepreneur. _

_The pair were spotted by a Prophet photographer canoodling over a pasta dish at dinner (p.4), with one bystander claiming they left in a hurry._

…

If Ginny hadn't hidden behind a pot plant at the charity event, Harry would've told her he was in a relationship with Pansy Parkinson. She wasn't sure what was worse, hearing it from the horse's mouth—in such an apologetic and kind way she couldn't be angry—or reading it on the cover of the Daily Prophet during her morning tea.

Ginny had to admit, a year had passed since their breakup. It was more than enough time for them to move onto other people. Even if a certain 'people' had once advocated handing him over to Lord Voldemort.

Regardless, Hermione and Pansy—the first time they'd likely co-operated on anything—had insisted on a girl's night, bringing Pansy into the fold. Luna was first to say yes, in typical fashion, not seeming daunted by a night of awkward silences and passive-aggressive snipes. But Ginny had given in.

As they'd moved from bar to club, Ginny watched Pansy closely, and though she hated to admit it, she did understand Harry's attraction. He'd always liked strong women, and Pansy had no qualms with laughing the loudest in the room, refusing to sugar coat her words, and was unafraid of stepping on toes. She had presence, and a strange magnetism about her, which made her hard to look away from. And she didn't shy from the attention. So, yes, Ginny understood it.

Was she bitter? It was hard to tell. She'd been in love with Harry for the entire span of her adolescent and adult life so far—a year wasn't going to undo that. And there was no way to hate him, he only had the purest intentions, and he never held any malice towards her. It hadn't been that kind of break-up—nothing violent. Just a slow drift, their lives pulling them in opposite directions until they were oceans apart. It had crept up on Ginny, and it had been over before she'd realized. That was the saddest part; Ginny hadn't been ready. But they'd been lying on the settee, her head in his lap, his fingers in her hair. The truth of it had settled over them, and she'd looked up at him.

"This is the end, isn't it?"

He hadn't replied, but the clench of his jaw was enough of an answer. That was the hardest lesson she'd learnt so far—sometimes love wasn't enough. It was her parents' fault, they'd made it look so easy.

All she wanted was his happiness. And if Pansy Parkinson made Harry happy, then Ginny could try to give her a chance. Or at the very least, hold her hair back if she spewed later tonight.

"My round." Ginny shouted over the music, sliding out from a booth Pansy had secured for them.

The place was packed, and the room felt smaller due to the humidity of the packed together bodies. Ginny was surprised she'd never heard of this club, it seemed popular, but her personal space bubble was too big for somewhere like this.

Her assessment of the club was only affirmed when she nearly took an elbow to the face, and she briefly cursed inheriting her height from her mother.

It didn't help at the bar either—she practically had to lean over the sticky lip of the marble to be seen, but to no avail.

"There's usually a bit of a wait here."

Either Ginny was cursed, or Blaise Zabini practised omnipresence in his spare time.

Blaise was tight against her side, and difficult to ignore. Despite not expecting or looking for him, Ginny wasn't surprised by him being right there, but that was how little she trusted her luck.

"You don't seem the clubbing type."

Something flickered over Zabini's face, like she'd unintentionally made a joke, "I'm not."

Ginny wasn't enjoying his 'man of few words' schtick, as though he was interesting enough to be mysterious.

"Pansy's initiation," Blaise continued, "Draco and I were set up here as back up, you could say. In case things go pear-shaped."

Ginny tried to maintain her dignity as she was jostled roughly into his side, gritting her teeth when Blaise steadied her with a hand to the shoulder.

"That seems unnecessary." Ginny huffed, referencing Pansy, but he removed his hand anyway.

"She's a Slytherin." Was his only explanation.

"You say that like I'd forgotten."

Zabini shifted a little, she wished she couldn't feel it so acutely, but backing away from his side would mean losing her hard-earned spot at the bar.

"Some of us outgrew out childhood prejudices." He replied.

"My childhood prejudices weren't racist and entirely unfounded." She snapped, pairing it with glare. She'd forgotten how bloody tall he was, and with their proximity, she had to crane her neck to land her mark.

But instead of a scowl returned, she watched his lips twitch into something short of a smile,

"I can't argue that point."

Ginny felt like she was walking on eggshells whenever they talked. She was carefully aware of what she'd overheard at the Ministry—the feral anger in his voice—and how calm and in control he played now. Even his smiles were careful and contained, and always at her expense. It made her long to find the chink in his armour. What had he been discussing at the Ministry? What was the secret he took such steps to conceal? She could smell it on him, under the delicious cologne and Firewhiskey, something was sour underneath.

After a moment's silence, she realized he was examining her right back.

"I'm surprised you're here." he said. It was strange, he didn't have to raise his voice, she could pick it through the chaos.

She knew she shouldn't encourage him.

"Why?" she replied.

"I thought you'd be too prideful."

Prideful! She couldn't help rolling her eyes, "You, of all people, calling me prideful?"

He shrugged, "I know my worth."

"Which is apparently leagues above everyone else on the planet."

Zabini probably had a jab lined up, but the bartender was at them,

"What can I grab you?"

Zabini gestured for Ginny to go, and she raised her voice to be heard over the heavy bass,

"A neat Ogden's, a Gigglewater, and two house reds please."

Before she could reach for her coin purse, Zabini was sliding a few Galleons over the bar,

"My shout." he explained. It was a reflex to be defensive about money—Zabini and his peers had never been kind about her finances in the past. But she shook it, she wasn't eleven anymore, and she didn't want to prove him right by being proud.

Ginny collected the drinks with a charm, moving to leave the bar, but Zabini wasn't finished yet,

"I have a question—"

She turned, and the glasses she was hovering clinked together,

"Yes?"

She watched his mouth mull over the words, like he was struggling to phrase himself, or afraid to ask,

"Why'd you quit Quidditch, Weasley?"

That was the fucking question, wasn't it?

She knew why, but that sure as hell didn't mean he had to.

"I don't know, Zabini, maybe I'm too prideful?"

Ginny allowed herself the satisfaction of watching his brows knit together, before slipping back into the crowd with the drinks.

_ZABINI – SELFRIDGE: EIGHTH TIME'S THE CHARM?_

…

_Theodora Zabini was a glowing bride in an off-white floor length gown, with fairy wings sewed to the ten-foot long train. Guests report the ceremony as a lavish affair, held in the manicured gardens of Selfridge's second manor. _

_Octavin Selfridge, set to inherit Selfridge Ink and Quills after the death of his father, was a well-known bachelor until his whirlwind affair with Theodora, and had previously sworn that he'd 'never marry'._

_The walk was Theodora's eighth down the aisle, and when asked about her luck in love, she told us,_

"_I have had some bad luck with husbands, that's true. But for me, it's important to never give up in love. And I think I may have finally found the one."_

_Some five hundred guests were in attendance, but notably absent was Theodora's son, Tornadoes Captain Blaise Zabini. When asked about his absence, Blaise blamed a 'schedule clash'._

Ron was delusional to believe the Cannons had any chance of winning the game. Ginny had decided she wouldn't try convince him otherwise, however, because watching the optimism slide off his face would be far more satisfying.  
At least afterwards she could convince him into a few sorrowful pints at the Leaky, which would probably lead to her dragging his drunken ass home to Hermione at a ridiculous hour in the morning.

They met outside the stadium with little fuss, as Ron was unmissable in his flaming orange supporter gear, which in peripheral vision made him look like a traffic cone. Maybe, Ginny considered, if she walked a few steps ahead of him, people wouldn't think they were together.

They made their way up the viewing tower steps, Ron counting each aisle for their seats.

"Here we are." he pointed, and they slid past the punters who were already seated, "Cor, pretty close to the action! I guess that's what happens when I flash my name around."

She prodded him in the back, "You mean _my_ name, twat."

The crowd was considerably thinner in this section, testament to the tickets being double the price. Each of the seats was a horrific but familiar shade of orange, the same colour that graced the walls of Ron's room at the Burrow. Ginny suspected he would've carried the fanaticism to his marital room as well, if not for Hermione's dignity.

Ron was right though—they were tight up against the barrier, their view of the pitch unobstructed. Leaning over the railing, the height made Ginny's stomach swoop, like the sensation of flying was burned into her muscle memory. If she blacked out the sound of chatter behind her, and concentrated on the faint wind catching the ends of her hair, she could pretend for a moment that she was flying again, sitting high above everyone else, scouting the pitch for plays and openings.

There was nothing else like it, and her body missed it with a deep ache.

"Wicked!" Ron said loudly. He was standing beside her, blindingly orange and impossible to ignore. She sighed, pulling away from the railing and shooting him a sidelong glance.

He was practically wriggling with excitement, beaming ear to ear. It was strange against the tired smugdes under his eyes, indicating they'd had another rough night with baby Rose. Ginny silently prayed for the continued effectiveness of her contraceptive potion.

"I have a tingling feeling." He continued, "I think it's victory."

"Are you sure Hermione's not using that 'detergent' stuff again?"

"No, it's victory." Ron insisted. "You want a pint before they get moving?"

"Yeah, only if it's your shout."

"If the Cannon's win, it's your shout for the rest of the night." he countered.

"You should've told me that earlier, I wouldn't have brought my wallet."

He flashed her his middle finger, patting down his coat for his wallet as he headed back towards the steps. She knew for a fact that it was also a piece of Chudley Cannon's merchandise, and if he got drunk enough tonight, she was going to lose it for him.

A few seconds after Ron disappeared, Ginny detected movement on the pitch. She watched as the Tutshill Tornadoes filed onto the grounds for their warm ups, and jealously unexpectedly and violently twisted her gut.

She remembered how the anticipation and intensity brewed before each match, and she'd always tried to forget the eyes trained on her as she and her team stretched and practiced a few drills. It was funny how, in front of thousands of strangers, she felt the least on display. Ginny just narrowed her focus down to the game, to the movements and plays right in front of her, and the stares of the crowd slid off her back.

It was after the game—the press matches, the articles, the invasive photographers, the gossip—that she felt the gaze of others, as though she was trapped in a goldfish bowl.

Accidentally, her eyes found Zabini. And as much as the sight of him stirred rage deep within her, she couldn't deny he was in his element here. His shoulders were a hard line under the padding, his stride self-assured as he paced, watching his Chasers push through a basic accuracy drill. There, she understood it—the way he held his jaw, his laser sharp focus on the players above, shouting instructions she couldn't hear—the confidence he exuded was undeniable, like a powerful aura that surrounded the air around him, commanding attention.

"Here you go."

Ron's voice made her jump, and with conscious effort, she dragged her eyes from Zabini, to the pint Ron held out.

"Ah, cheers."

Ron noticed her distance, raising an eyebrow, "You right?"

She just nodded quickly, and they took their seats.

_TUTSHILL TORNADOES WIN AGAINST CHUDLEY CANNONS 240 – 80_

…

_The win wasn't without its controversies though, as many question the decision made by referee Marcus Flint twenty-four minutes into the game, when Captain Blaise Zabini fired a Bludger that broke opponent Galvin Gudgeon's ulna. No penalty was awarded._

"_I reviewed the play, and determined no foul had occurred. It was an unfortunate accident, but Zabini had no intention of grievously injuring Gudgeon, so it was not necessary for a penalty shot to be awarded."_

_Many Cannon supporters weren't happy with this call however, as shown by one enraged fan, who threw a pint of beer at Flint from the viewing stands. Play resumed after a five-minute timeout as Flint cleaned up. The perpetrator was not apprehended._

Lately, it felt as though she was spending more time with Harry post-split than they ever had when they were together. That had probably been another reason for their break-up—they'd both been intensely focused on their young careers, instead of on each other.

But now he and Pansy were trying to pull off an impossible task; drawing Slytherins and Gryffindors together. Ginny would've thought there was too much bad blood there to ever achieve such a feat. And yet, she'd turned up at their doorstep with a plate of Molly Weasley's tiramisu and a bottle of the second-cheapest red wine she could find at the off-licence.

"Come in, come in." Pansy opened the door in a wave of perfume, and pressed her lips to Ginny's cheek in a perfunctory way. The coat rack grabbed Ginny's coat, and Pansy took the wine off her, scanning the label. Ginny thought it was very polite how well she tried to hide her disgust—it was unlikely that bottle would make it to the table then.

"Here, I'll take you through." Pansy told her, bustling up the hallway.

The apartment was beautiful, so Harry probably had nothing to do with its décor. The walls were a creamy colour, with dark wooden furnishings—but otherwise minimal. Ginny didn't know what she'd been expecting, maybe her own prejudices had led her to believe it would be gothic and ostentatious, but instead it came off as cosy in an upscale way.

Pansy ushered Ginny into the dining room, and it seemed she was the last one to arrive, despite being ten minutes early. Familiar faces turned towards her as she stepped into the room, and she checked off the names—Seamus, Dean, Ron, Hermione, Luna, Neville, Harry—who only just outnumbered the Slytherins present—Draco Malfoy, Theo Nott, Daphne Greengrass, Tracey Davis—and of course, Zabini. Even Millicent Bulstrode was present, though it seemed some care had been taken to put her and Hermione as far from each other as possible.

It seemed there had been some care taken with all of the placings in fact, an even spread of Slytherin and Gryffindor. Ginny saw a little placeholder with her name on it between Luna and Daphne.

A few stood to greet Ginny, and Harry came in with a big bear hug.

"Ginny, how are you?"

"Can't complain, yourself?" he felt the same as he always did against her.

"Not too bad." He pulled away, "God, is that Molly's tiramisu? I haven't had that in a while! I'll pop it in the fridge." She handed it to him, before taking her seat.

Luna leaned over to her, "Hello, Ginny. Have you seen their fridge? It's fascinating—Harry bought in from a Muggle store, but they've charmed it to work with magic. He showed me all the lektric cables."

"Hi to you too, Luna. Sounds strange, if you ask me."

Ginny was happy to allow Luna to drag her into conversation, as it saved her from having to acknowledge who they'd seated directly across from her at the table. Zabini was deep in conversation with Draco in low tones she couldn't pick out, but there was something in his expression that was off. He was missing his printed smile, instead his jaw was clenched, lips tightened into something two twitches short of a frown. Oddly, it made him look more familiar, more like the sulky boy she remembered from Slug Club.

'_Charming smile' my arse_, Ginny thought to herself.

Despite Zabini being in the room, Ginny had to admit Pansy had done a lovely job. The room was lit with gentle candlelight, and Pansy had even charmed the napkins into little origami doves. Ginny's was a little lively however, fluttering to the edge of her plate, so she put her fork on it to keep it still.

Dinner wasn't the horrendous affair she'd been expecting. Ginny mostly stuck to conversation with her own, but she was surprised by Daphne Greengrass' good humour. She even offered the grounds of her manor to Seamus and Dean for their upcoming wedding, as they were struggling to find a place that was big enough, and wizard friendly.

At least, all was going well until dessert. Neville went off on a bit of a tangent about the new plant he was breeding for the students in Greenhouse Three, and Harry politely changed the conversation.

"You think you'll play for England in next year's World Cup, Zabini?"

Zabini seemed surprised Harry was addressing him directly, pausing through his second plate of tiramisu, but he took it in his stride,

"Depends on the performance of the Tornadoes in the league, I suppose. There's a few big names up for the Beater positions, but if we continue performing well, we should grab the attention of the recruiters."

Harry considered this, "I caught the game between you and the Cannons. Good game, but Flint's call…?"

"Was the right one." Zabini said shortly.

The two glasses of Pansy's wine Ginny had consumed over dinner was doing her no favours, but it was much nicer than whatever she'd bought to dinner.

"Helps when the referee is an old school pal though."

Zabini's gaze snapped to her, and alarm bells were ringing. It was neither the time nor place, but she hadn't been able to help herself.

"Ever the conspiracy theorist, Weasley."

She took another sip of wine, as though it would still her tongue,

"Well, I think a stadium full of people would agree with me; you fired a Bludger at Galvin, and broke his arm."

Zabini gaze was icy, and the whole table was still,

"Need I remind you the purpose of a Beater? The Bludger targets players—I fire it away from mine, towards the other team."

_Condescending prick_.

"Yes, but the rules of the game dictate a Beater cannot target a player and fire with the intent of grievous bodily harm. I think a broken arm is 'harm', don't you?"

"So you think I committed a serious foul, and Flint—a referee hired and vetted by the Ministry—let me get away with it, because we went to school together?"

She shrugged, "You said it."

Hermione was shaking her head in a panic, mouthing 'stop!', just out of Zabini's view. Ron's spoon was halfway between the plate and his mouth—the bit of treacle tart piled on it fell back to his plate with a plop.

"Do you want my 'hot take', Weasley?" Zabini seemed to draw up, still staring icicles at her from across the table, "I think you look for a giant conspiracy to blame your shortcomings upon, so you can excuse your own failure as a Quidditch captain. Because that's the truth isn't it? _You didn't make it. _Why can't you acknowledge the reality, Weasley? Instead of lashing out—trying to take my team down—admit it. You're jealous of our successes. You're jealous they aren't yours. But say this—let's for one moment, pretend all your ideas of corruption and collusion are correct. Let's play into your ridiculous delusion. What are you going to do about it, Weasley?"

The words stung like a slap to the face, yet were worse than any physical harm he could've inflicted. Suddenly she felt the eyes on her amplified tenfold, everyone waiting with bated breath to hear her next words. She struggled for something to say, a way to justify what she'd accused him of, but she drew blank.

Instead, she stood from her chair, turning to her hosts.

"Harry, Pansy, dinner was lovely. Thank you. You can keep the glass dish." she nodded towards the tiramisu on the table.

With that, she left through the front door, snatching her coat off the rack. And credit to herself, she managed to hold the tears until she Apparated home.

_PUDDLEMERE UNITED TO PLAY TUTSHILL TORNADOES IN FINAL_

_After a striking victory against the Wimbourne Wasps, Puddlemere United are set to play against the Tutshill Tornadoes in next week's final. _

"_I'm ecstatic." Blaise Zabini told our reporters, "It's up to us now, to put our best forward and the best team shall win!"_

_When asked about the criticism he'd faced since the controversial game against the Chudley Cannons, Zabini had this to say, "I can keep it brief on that topic. Ginny Weasley, I'm going to make you eat your words."_

Their interviewer flitted about the room, checking the audio spells three times more than necessary, almost shaking with excitement.

He hadn't needed to call for silence—Ginny had nothing to say to the man beside her, and would've struggled for words with a wand to her head.

"Very surprised you both agreed, of course!" the man—Ginny had forgotten his name—was settling into his chair, and it was unclear whether Ginny was expected to respond, "Any reporter would kill for this opportunity. Thanks again, in all seriousness—"

But Zabini filled the silence, having fetched his media personality from whatever cupboard he stored it in on weekends.

"Couldn't think of a better man for the job, Briggs."

The inane smile of Briggs' face grew desperately bigger, and Ginny cringed in her chair. She'd never been sure how to react to the reverence the public insisted on treating Quidditch players with. The only difference between Ginny and most people was the amount of time she spent off the ground.

Blaise, predictably, had made a home of his pedestal, sun-tanning in his spotlight. It was another predictable reason to hate him.

Briggs counted down on his fingers, indicating the audio spells to primed to go. Ginny felt when they went live, it felt like a tickle up her throat,

"That was the new Weird Sisters hit, _My Cauldron's on Fire_. Now, listeners, we're joined by two very special guests this afternoon. You've probably seen their infamous Quidditch rivalry in the papers, so we welcome—in their very first shared interview—Blaise Zabini and Ginny Weasley. Welcome to the show, guys."

"Thanks for having us, Briggs. We're stoked to be here." If Ginny closed her eyes, she would almost believe Zabini meant it.

"Absolutely." Ginny managed, suddenly at a loss for words, a ridiculous disadvantage on a radio interview.

Briggs marched forward all the same, "It's been a nail-biting season for your team this year, Zabini. The Tornadoes victories have been especially unprecedented this season—this time last year your team was sitting at seventh in the league. What's the secret to your success, Blaise?"

"I wouldn't say it's _my_ success, Briggs. I'm just fortunate enough to head a team with the tenacity and determination to push themselves to victory. I've been so proud of the strides the Tornadoes have made this season, but I won't pretend it's not deserved."

Ginny, not for the first time, was genuinely unnerved by Zabini. He'd retired his predatory grin for the afternoon, as there were no cameras to perform for. But his voice was still playing the role, juxtaposed against his dead expression. It was like poorly performed puppetry.

Distracted, she should've seen the question coming, "Ginny, you've not been shy in your criticism of the Tornadoes success this season."

"No, I haven't."

"You stand by your comments?"

Ginny had known this question was inevitable, and she'd been planning this for days. Finally, it was here, but she struggled to fit the words together. Briefly, she found herself wishing for Zabini's charisma, before remembering his joyless smile, and she took it back.

"I do, yes. I'm not denying the Tornadoes have played excellently this year, because they have. But there have been a few incidents which crossed a line, and I believe they should've been looked at more closely. It's our job, as a sporting community, to ensure all teams play fairly, and feel safe when they're on the pitch. I'm not going to apologise for doing my best to make sure of it."

Ginny hoped it didn't sound as rehearsed as it felt, but Briggs' surprised silence must've meant something,

"Blaise, do you have a rebuttal to that?"

He didn't even pause, "Inevitably, I'm always going to defend the actions of my team. I believe the Tornadoes have played fairly this season. Yet, I'm not going to undermine Weasley's point—we, as players, should encourage good sportsmanship. Often in the adrenaline and fanaticism of the game, we forget common courtesy, and it's our job as players—and role models—to ensure those standards are upheld."

Ginny drew a breath, trying to summon what little confidence she could,

"I don't believe those standards are being upheld to the quality you believe, Zabini." she cautiously began.

The two men looked at her. Briggs, some trepidation muddled with excitement. Zabini looked at her as if trying to convey a warning—'don't.' But she'd taken this interview for a reason, an answer to the challenge Zabini had presented her with at dinner.

_You started this, Zabini_. Ginny cleared her throat, and pulled a piece of parchment from the pocket of her robes. She tried not to crinkle it too loudly, in case the sound echoed across the Wireless for all the listeners to hear. But she flattened it out on the table in front of her, and began to read.

"Well, I did some digging. According to what I found, players who are part of the 'Sacred Twenty-Eight' families make up roughly forty percent of all professional regional Quidditch teams. Which is unusual, seeing as they make up roughly seven percent of the wizarding population in Britain. In fact, the English National Quidditch team has eight pureblood players on the team, which including reserves, is a team of eleven. And not just pureblood categorically, but again, associated with the 'Sacred Twenty Eight.'

"An odd coincidence? Maybe, I thought. So then I did more research. I looked into the approved referees, who as you said, Zabini, are vetted by the Department of Magical Games and Sports, and surprise! Fifteen special referees, ten associated with the Sacred Twenty-Eight. From there, I went to fouls. Looking through matches they'd refereed, and compared penalty shots they'd allowed and dismissed. And look—the statistics over the last five years show that these ten referees, associated with the Pureblood Directory, are roughly seventy percent more likely to enforce penalties against Muggleborn and half-blood players! So, if a non-pureblood player commits a foul, these referees are more likely to give the other team a penalty shot! It even stands up team-wide. If a team has more pureblood players than non-purebloods, it seems they have less fouls on their record than more diverse teams!

"Maybe, this is all just one big coincidence. So yes, I did more digging. I investigated the funding received by the Department of Magical Games and Sports. And look here—sixty three percent of funding is from 'private donors'. They seem reluctant to list the information of these donors publicly, but we can deduce with some simple guesswork. For example, one donation is an annual sum of half a million Galleons—very generous. It mysteriously seems to connect to a withdrawal from the Sacred Twenty-Eight charity fund, which as you know, is organized and funded by the six richest houses in the Sacred Twenty-Eight families. Again, maybe just a coincidence. But it is all quite strange, if you lay it all out like that. So no, I don't believe our standards as a sporting community are being properly 'upheld', Zabini. But call me a conspiracy theorist all you want."

Both men were utterly gobsmacked.

If Ginny wasn't so shaken by sheer adrenaline running through her veins, she would've been proud that she'd finally cracked through Zabini's façade. Cracked wasn't even the right word. There was no 'charming' smile to be found, just a dead eyed stare as he watched her carefully refold her parchment and tuck it away.

Briggs cleared his throat, breaking the silence,

"Wow, Ginny, you've really done your research. This will be the Quidditch scandal of the year if your allegations come out as true and will require heavy investigation by the Ministry before the Quidditch World Cup next year. Zabini, what are your thoughts on this bombshell?"

Ginny watched Zabini carefully—she could almost see the cogs whirring in his mind, planning his answer. He went to speak, stopped himself, and then began again, his tone cautious,

"These accusations are very serious. I don't think this should go ignored, as it's a matter that would undermine the sportsmanship of the league that my team and I work so hard to uphold. Of course, Weasley's research is only a matter of coincidences, and would need _proper_ research by an independent team with no stake in the matter, to properly reveal the reality of the situation. It would be unjust if innocent players, like myself, who worked hard to earn their positions, where undermined and compromised by unproven accusations."

Zabini had held Ginny's eyes through his spiel, but at the word 'accusations' raised a smug eyebrow at her, challenging her for a response. And, as he'd probably intended, Ginny anger surged, and all she could hear was the rushing of blood in her ears.

She'd been foolish to think she could pin him down—he was as slippery as a snake. Ginny tried to push down the fury, gritting her teeth so tightly she felt like they would crack. For all of her investigations, the evidence she'd compiled in this game of cat and mouse between them, he'd still managed to switch it around and make her look like a sloppy amateur throwing around allegations out of spite. No matter how she tried to pin him, how obvious she was in pointing out the bias people treated him with, his character was so carefully constructed, his PR training so ingrained, that he could slither his way out of anything she threw at him.

Ginny didn't want to mention it. It was barely a lead, just the tail end of a conversation, but it was all she had to tie him to this whole conspiracy. And she was so blindingly angry at him—his stupid, smug face—that it all came bubbling over, even though she knew it could be a mistake,

"Actually, I think it's important to acknowledge _everyone_ that could be involved in this scandal. In fact, a few weeks ago, you made a comment to your lawyer that caught my interest, and started my investigation. You said, 'if this came out, it would ruin the season. I don't need the reputation of my team under question—"

Finally, she'd swept the rug out from under his feet, "That was a private conversation—" he hissed, looking almost as angry as she felt.

"In a very public and busy place, which I happened to overhear. If you maintain your innocence and are free of this mess, then you're welcome to clarify and I'll apologise."

There was something mesmerising about how contained he managed to keep himself, how even the anger he'd just displayed was quickly subdued, but she could still see the heat of it in his eyes.

"A complete misunderstanding, and I'm once more unsurprised by your lack of professionalism and obvious bias, Weasley." his tone was acidic, but his expression was blank and unreadable once more, "That discussion with my lawyer, if you must know, was about taking away the control of the Zabini estate and fortune from my mother. I'm not wanting to go into detail—these matters are not for tabloid gossip. It's a very upsetting matter for us both, and I'd have rather had kept it private."

_Well, fuck._

Ginny's gut dropped. She hadn't considered the possibility she'd been wrong. All she'd wanted to do was so desperately expose him for the fake, manipulative bullshitter he really was, she hadn't even entertained the idea of that conversation meaning something else entirely. She'd only heard what she wanted to hear.

Her anger turned inward, and a sickly feeling of guilt settled over her. God, she'd absolutely fucked it this time.

"Blaise—" she began, but he cut in.

"I've been polite in this past, Weasley, but your utter determination to paint me as a bad person has gone far enough. It shows your complete lack of integrity, and it's ridiculous you've allowed this to become so personal and malicious that you're blinded to the possibility of my innocence."

He turned to Briggs,

"Thank you for having me Briggs, but I believe this interview is over."

Briggs scrambled quickly to tie up the segment, but Zabini had already stood to leave. The recording was still live however, and Ginny struggled to find a way to communicate her apologies—she stood up to follow him—but Zabini didn't even take the time to shoot her a glare before storming from the room.

_ZABINI FAMILY FORTUNE FEUD_

…

_After the shock reveal during an interview on the Wireless, more details have emerged from the Wizarding Courts this morning on the legal battle between Quidditch Captain Blaise Zabini, and his recently married mother Theodora Zabini. _

_Blaise Zabini successfully challenged his mother's sole control over the fortune, stating her recent marriage and frivolous spending endangered the wealth the family had accumulated. The Court ruled in his favour, giving Blaise full control over the fortune, with his mother given a generous weekly allowance out of the funds._

"_I had hoped this wouldn't come out until the case had concluded. I didn't want to take attention away from the successes of my team, and I was concerned this case may reflect poorly on me—I know many wouldn't agree with my actions." Blaise told reporters, "But I'm very happy with the result we've reached."_

It was a typical London evening—blusteringly cold and drizzly. Ginny kept her coat tight around her, the rain seemed to soak through her warming charm as she stood outside Zabini's apartment block. She'd rung the buzzer twice now, but it wasn't going as she had planned. She'd at least expected he'd answer the door, yell at her, and maybe even throw her a jinx or two.

But she hadn't expected that he'd completely ignore her, and she'd be left at his doorstep in the cold like a lost puppy.

She buzzed again, and decided she'd wait for another ten minutes before ambushing him somewhere else tomorrow. At least she had his address now, and it hadn't been as hard to acquire as she'd expected. Pansy had just given her a knowing look when she'd asked, but had handed it over without protest.

Ginny had been about to leave when a figure appeared behind her, damp with rain, and she turned, shocked to find Zabini looking at her with a single raised eyebrow. He was geared up in joggers and sweatpants, a slight steam rising off him. Her gut twisted painfully.

Ginny opened her mouth to state her case, but all he did was step past her, unlocking the complex door with a quick flick of his wand and stepping inside the doorway. Now it was going to script—this was the part where he told her to jog on and slammed the door in her face. Part of her wanted him to, because she knew she deserved it, and it was better than sitting at home and lying in her own guilt, running the interview over in her mind and wishing she could take it all back.

But instead he stood there, watching her before saying calmly,

"Are you coming up or not?"

It took her a second to get through the shock, "Oh, uh, yeah." she mumbled, and stepped over the threshold.

She followed him up a flight of stairs, before the reached another door, and he performed another unlocking charm.

His apartment was low lit with floor lamps, and once again, not what she'd expected. She assumed that growing up in such opulence would carry over into his adult home, but his apartment was moderately sized and open plan. It was tidy, but lived in—a stack of Quidditch magazines sat on his coffee table, and she could see a few mugs by the sink in the kitchen. She slipped her shoes off, the cream carpet soft, and he took her coat, placing it on the rack.

"Take a seat." he said, gesturing towards a dark leather sofa.

She moved towards it, before remembering what she held in her hands,

"Um, I bought some more of Mum's tiramisu. I noticed you liked it at, uh, dinner." She didn't want to remind him of how foul she'd been then, too, as it wouldn't help her case.

"Your mum is an excellent cook." he said, taking the dish out of her hands, "My nutritionist is going to kill me."

She took a seat carefully, still trepidatious that everything was about to go wrong. It was also strange being somewhere so private, and somewhere that so obviously belonged to him. All of their conversations were so public, and always observed, that it felt voyeuristic to be in his home—watching him fetch two plates and two glasses of wine from his pantry.

"You drink red, don't you?"

"Yeah." Ginny said, feeling like she was occupying far too much space. It felt strange too, that he remembered what wine she preferred from their brief interaction at the bar and dinner, and it reminded her that while she'd been watching him, he'd been watching her too.

He poured the wine and served the tiramisu, bring it to her on the settee before settling into the one adjacent to her, tucking into the dessert. She set her bowl on the coffee table, opting to sip the wine, as her stomach was filled with nervous butterflies as she perched on the edge of the settee, too nervous to eat.

Ginny knew she was staring, but it was odd to see him so comfortable and off-guard, slouched in his seat in sweatpants, working his way through the bowl of tiramisu with vigour. Obviously, he couldn't be so cool and controlled all the time, but it was still unnerving.

She cleared her throat, "I owe you an apology. I never intended to out your private family business in the press—if I'd known that was what that meeting was about, I'd never had said anything. You were right—I was so prejudiced that I never even considered the possibility that you weren't caught up in all this, and I never should've been so antagonistic towards you."

He'd finished his dessert and was watching her, his expression completely unreadable. There wasn't anything else she'd planned to say—she'd expected their meeting to be brief—but he seemed to be waiting for something else, as though he could see something unspoken in her, something she was holding back. The space was too intimate, too private, and she felt fifteen years of words unsaid bubbling up, and he was waiting expectantly for them.

Ginny focused on not getting choked up.

"You know, I've never felt ashamed of my family." she said in a rush, and once the first sentence came out, it was impossible to stop, "but you, people like you, wanted to make me feel it. Muttering comments about the Weasleys, and all their children, hand me down robes and second-hand books. I thought the leaving Hogwarts would be the end of it, that we'd outgrow out of stupid taunting and special treatment."

She took a breath, "I thought that being a professional Quidditch player, people would see my skill and my commitment, and nothing past that. But I had to work twice as hard to get to where you are. I fought tooth and nail to get the respect and recognition I deserved. And what of it? People don't spit the name 'Weasley' like an insult anymore, that's for sure.

"But they weren't looking at my Quidditch skills either, no. They were concerned about my marketability, my PR face, how my body looked in the Holyhead Harpy robes. The public didn't like me because I was 'outspoken' and 'rub people the wrong way.' I was being looked down upon all over again, not just because of my name, but because of _me_. So they tried to coach me, train me on what I should say and how I should act, so I could secure brand deals and sell merchandise.

"Do you remember our win against Puddlemere United? Us, the fifth team in the league, beat the second team in the league—one of the biggest upsets in the entire tournament. And we thrashed them too. And the next morning, what was on the front page of the Daily Prophet? Not the win—that was five pages deep. It was a big gossip piece on my breakup with Harry. Nothing about our win. It didn't even mention the game—I was reduced to one line, in bracket after my name 'Quidditch player'. Not even 'captain'. I was being reduced, once more, to my associations, to whatever gossip they could drag up about me. And that's when I thought—fuck it. If I can't beat what they say, I can at least have some hand in it. So I tried—but now I'm just reduced to fifty word bullshit articles for the Daily Prophet on the match rankings and other trite."

She sighed, taking a sip of wine.

"And then, _you_, the epitome of everything I opposed. You put on this front no one can see through, flash your 'charming' smile, and suddenly people are tripping over themselves to idolize you. You can do no wrong, even though you clearly are, but because you know all the right things to say at the right moments, so people think you shit gold. I was just so _angry_ because you have the sacred name, and the finances and the public support to get away with so much, because you're not being scrutinized in the same way I was."

"But I'm sorry. I never should've pinned the blame on you for my personal downfalls. It's not right. I can't say it enough, but I'm deeply, truly sorry."

Blaise was still watching her so intensely, she felt so _seen_ by him—like he could finally see her clear as day.

His expression flicked through a handful of emotions, so quickly she couldn't process them, before he stood. This was it, he was going to show her the door and ask her never to speak to him again.

Ginny felt a pang of reluctance, but she wasn't regretful of what she'd said. She told him the truth, her honest-to-Merlin truth, and she had nothing more to say. She didn't expect his forgiveness, but her words were now his, to do with them what he wished.

"I want to show you something." he said in a low tone, offering her his hand to help her up. She took it without thinking, surprised by the warmness of it as he helped her up. It had ridges too—callouses from his broomstick and the beater's bat, most likely. But as soon as she stood he dropped it, and lead her towards a hallway she hadn't initially noticed.

He opened the first door on the left, and the room lit up when he flicked his wand. It seemed to be his study—his desk was a sturdy mahogany one, topped with a few stacks of parchment and a couple of used quills. Ginny noticed with some fondness he had framed Quidditch posters of old games in the past, from when they were in school. She could picture a young Blaise pinning them up in his dormitory with reverence.

The man himself was at his desk, rifling through the top drawer and pulling out a tiny cut out. He passed it to her, but she'd seen it before, the tiny notice it was, and remembered how it had enraged her on first reading.

_HOLYHEAD HARPIES BEAT PUDDLEMERE UNITED 250 – 60 _

_The Holyhead Harpies, in the biggest league upset so far, beat Puddlemere United in their match last night._

"_We're stoked." said Captain Ginny Weasley, "This is only the beginning for the Harpies—watch this space."_

It was the article she mentioned before, the afterthought on page five. It was brief, but she remembered the elation she'd felt giving the quote, high off the victory, caked in mud and sweat when the reporter had approached her. It was bittersweet to recall.

"You cut this out? And saved it?"

Blaise nodded, a kind smile playing at the edges of his mouth as he watched her react.

"Why?" She wasn't sure what to do with this information—of all the thing she'd expected, this was the last.

"I've always been a little bit in awe of you." he said carefully, watching her expression as though he was afraid of the words, "You're a ball of energy, unapologetic fire. You say what you want, consequences be damned, and you don't take shit from anybody.

"You said you were jealous of my PR training, how I know what to say and when to say it. But it hasn't simply been my career, my façade has been my whole life. I was in Slytherin, on the edges of a war, considered by Voldemort as a potential initiate. I had to walk so carefully on the edge, be enough of a purist that I didn't become a threat, but not passionate enough to be invited into the fold. I was afraid, always, terrified for my life but I was too far from your side and your associations that I knew they'd be to sceptical to take me in.

"I had hoped the nightmare would end when the war did, and it did, in a way. I stopped fearing for my life. But being neutral in the war, I knew it reflected poorly. To be a bystander on the fringes of Death Eater circles, I wouldn't be treated kindly. But I had this language I'd learned, of fear, which I could use to manipulate and con people into liking me. To advance my career, and ensure I wasn't caught up in the trials afterwards.

"So I did. I kept up the mask, and it worked, but at a cost. My interactions, they aren't genuine, and the Blaise Zabini that people know, it a caricature of the true me. I envied and adored how real and unapologetic you were, and how you didn't bite you tongue. That's why it hurt when you turned your ire on me, even though I understood it.

"It's long overdue, but I'm sorry. The way I treated you, and spoke to you in school, that was never ok. And even now, the things I said to you, I feel so guilty about. I was afraid about damage to my immortal reputation, which seems so stupid to defend now. I wanted nothing more than to open up to you, but I once again, I was cowardly. But I don't want to be anymore."

Ginny didn't know what to say. She was swept over by the honesty of him, how he looked when everything else way peeled away. And before she could even process that, he leaned down and kissed her.

It was brief, but so soft and cautious, barely a pressing of lips but it sent a thrill through her that left her tingling all over, but he pulled away far too soon.

"Oh." Was all she could manage.

Blaise's brows knitted together, "I'm so sorry. That wasn't appropriate, at all. I didn't mean—"

But she didn't care about what he was going to say, because all she knew was that she wanted to kiss him again, so she did.

She was eager and ferocious this time, putting all of her rage and passion into it, pulling him hard against her. He responded in kind, fisting a hand in her hair and kissing her so fiercely she felt like her knees might give way. He tasted like tiramisu, and the rough of his tongue was a shock against the softness of his lips. Ginny thought she heard a growl sound in the back of his throat as she bit his lower lip.

The broke apart again, each of them panting with arousal. Ginny felt the flush high on her cheeks, and Blaise's pupils were so blown out she could barely see the dark brown on his iris. She felt like she was fifteen again.

"I've wanted to do that for a long time." he puffed.

"I think I have as well." she laughed.

"I had something else I wanted to say though."

She was so turned on she was going to faint, "You've got one minute."

"The trial with my mother, that wasn't on you. I knew the information was going to be released the next day, so I used it as a way to flip the accusation, and reflect poorly on you. I'm absolutely not involved in any of this corruption, to be clear, but I can't have any doubt cast on my team. I want to play in the Quidditch Cup next year, so I need to keep myself out of matters like that. That being said, I want to help you with the investigation. I agree that pureblood prejudice should not be what our sport is about, and I want to clear my name entirely. I'll be involved with, and fund the investigation. It is time to bring these things to light."

She couldn't help how wide her smile grew, "Really? That would be amazing. I only have one other question."

He reached for her, trailing a length of kissing down her neck which made her gasp,

"Yes?"

Ginny shot him a devilish look,

"How sturdy is that desk?"

_INVESTIGATION COMMITTEE FORMED_

…

_Ginny Weasley heads the committee, and her aim is to ensure standards are upheld across the British Quidditch League, and within the ranks of the Department of Magical Games and Sports._

"_Look, we may ruffle a few feathers, but we want a safe and supporting place for the next generation of Quidditch players. Pureblood prejudice has no place in our post-war community, so it shouldn't exist within Quidditch either."_

_Ginny Weasley's team includes Luna Lovegood, editor of the Quibbler; Hermione Granger, human and creature rights lawyer; and Blaise Zabini, Captain of the Tutshill Tornadoes and recent addition to the English National Quidditch team._

…

_HATE TO LOVE: ZABINI AND WEASLEY?_

…

_One reporter found the couple behind the building of a charity event, engaged in an undeniably steamy kiss. When approached for comment, Zabini told our reporter with a smile,_

"_Yeah, here's your comment. Piss off."_


End file.
